


The Monster Game

by murmuresdevanille



Category: Boyfriend to Death (Visual Novels)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Demons, Gore, M/M, Mind Games, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-22
Updated: 2018-02-19
Packaged: 2019-03-08 00:56:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13447107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/murmuresdevanille/pseuds/murmuresdevanille
Summary: > Demon King Rire finds himself in an interesting situation.> Strade is looking to have some violent fun.> Begin game? (Y/N)





	1. I'm Not Your Buddy

**Author's Note:**

> TW for this chapter:  
> alcohol
> 
> DISCLAIMER: I do not condone the actions of the characters in this story. This story is purely fictional and in no way reflects my intentions, beliefs, or actions.

In the dark glass of scotch he held in his hand, Rire could just make out his own faint reflection. Dark glasses and a stern mouth stared back at him from the smooth, brown liquid. It wasn’t that he was unhappy, though the frown he saw would indicate otherwise. No, unhappy was not the correct word, although he was, indeed, not  _ happy _ , as one might guess.

Rire was  _ bored _ . The ennui of daily life, overseeing demons, and living in the Nether among the blandness and mediocrity - it was all so  _ underwhelming _ . He thought coming to the human world would make things better, but so far, he was disappointed. Grimacing, he sipped some of the alcohol in his glass. 

It went down smoothly, smooth like the soft jazz playing in the background of the high end nightclub that he occasionally frequented, more of a country club than a nightclub, to be honest. It reminded him of the era a short time ago, back in the 1920s and 30s, was it? He used to come and listen to the jazz musicians back then, too, when jazz was first emerging as a genre. Strange, wasn’t it, that something so new, something so  _ young _ could catch on so quickly in his own attention span, would stick among his centuries of memories. Surely, to the humans around him, this kind of music would seem as if it had always been there. It almost made Rire sad. Almost. At the very least, it was amusing, seeing the little humans run around as though what they would do during the day would one day be of any significance while their entire existences, their lifetimes, would be nothing but a blip in Rire’s own life, just a phase like liking a certain kind of music or a childhood romance would be for the humans themselves, nothing longer than that felt to them.

Even today, it seemed as though Rire’s time would go to waste yet again. He could not seem to find anyone interesting as his eyes scanned the quiet jazz club. Perhaps it was time to - 

“Hey there, buddy,” a cheerful voice said, to Rire’s… Excitement? Surprise? Chagrin? It felt like a combination of all three. Just when he had been about to leave, too. Rire turned to see a fit, yet somewhat soft-looking man with greasy, wavy brown hair, and a red suit that was just a little too tight over his stomach and a little too worn for him to have worn it regularly and have taken care of it properly leaning on the counter of the bar. The man smiled, a big, toothy grin, and Rire noticed his stubble and the dark red scar on his chin.

“I am not your buddy,” Rire replied curtly, turning away. A shame, he thought. Here he was hoping for some fun, and the one human who approaches him was this shabbily dressed impostor, probably some young man hoping to move up in the ranks of society. That was what made humans so interesting, wasn’t it? And yet, Rire had seen it time and time again. Greed and ambition didn’t interest him anymore, not when it was so simple and trite.

“But you could be,” the man pressed, “After all, what’s a buddy but a stranger you get to know, right?” He laughed, and this time, Rire noticed the thick German accent with which he spoke.

Rire frowned, waving over the bartender for a check.

“Leaving so soon?” the man asked, the grin never leaving his face. He even had the audacity to sit down on the stool next to Rire’s. He waved at the approaching bartender. “Can we get two more drinks? Another scotch for this gentleman, and a lager for me, I think,” he happily - and generously, Rire noted - asked. “Put it on my tab! It’s a special occasion. The name’s Strade,” he added, for both Rire and the bartender’s benefit.

The bartender nodded, pouring Rire’s drink and sliding a bottle of expensive beer to the strange man before walking away. Rire did not touch his drink as the other man slid it closer to him, only frowned deeper.

“Don’t you want to know what special occasion it is?” The man asked, almost as though he were a child asking a parent to guess something ridiculous and obvious.

“Not particularly,” Rire answered dryly, sliding the scotch back.

“To the beginning of our friendship,” that man said, as he raised his golden lager and drank deeply, setting it down at last with a deep sigh.

“I do recall saying I did not want to know the occasion,” Rire said, annoyance creeping slowly into his voice. He wanted interesting humans to play with, not dense ones.

“I didn’t say that was the occasion,” the man smirked in response.

Rire stared impassively before getting up smoothly. “If you will excuse me, I must leave.”

“Where ya going, buddy?”

“Anywhere but where you are,” Rire quipped. If he weren’t so proud and controlled, he would have sent that man running by now. His patience was wearing thin.

It was strange. Once in the street outside of the club, he could feel the man from before, watching him, yet he felt different now. He was silent, walking up behind Rire quietly. There was no chatter, no “buddy”, no laughing. Rire walked down the block, smoothing his vest silently. He was being followed, now, was he?

Suddenly, at least, as sudden as a human could be, there was a whistling swinging sound, and the man brought down a sharp blow on Rire’s head, leaving him with a throbbing pain, but not enough to truly knock him out.

Wanting to see how this played out, Rire dropped to the floor, crumpling like a human would, pretending to be unconscious. The man laughed softly and then dragged Rire to a strange car, stuffing him in the passenger’s seat. There was no lock on that side, not even a door.

“Sorry to do this to you, buddy,” the man said quietly, although he did not sound quiet at all. “It’ll be okay, don’t you worry,” he laughed, not knowing Rire was fully conscious.

_ How interesting _ .


	2. My Cage Has Many Rooms, Damask and Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The game begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for this chapter:  
> inappropriate touching,  
> nudity,  
> knife,  
> Strade
> 
> DISCLAIMER: I do not condone the actions of the characters in this story. This story is purely fictional and in no way reflects my intentions, beliefs, or actions.

The most annoying thing about pretending to be unconscious, Rire decided, was that when one pretends to be unconscious, one is actually still conscious, and as such, can feel every fumble that one’s captor made.

The man - Strade, he said his name was, back at the bar, right? Might as well call him by that name now that they had gotten so far - had dragged Rire’s “unconscious” body from his car into his home, down the stairs into the dark basement, effectively getting dust all over Rire’s damask vest as well as causing severe pain to his spine, Rire thought in annoyance, where he now was using coarse, scratchy rope to tightly tie Rire’s hands behind a pillar extending from the floor to the ceiling of the basement. 

He could forgive dragging him down the stairs, as Rire was a relatively tall man, and he understood that it might be difficult to actually carry him, though he would have appreciated a bit more care. It was so thoughtless to just  _ drag _ someone’s body, after all. He could forgive Strade, too, for leaving him in the basement to change into an ugly green safari style shirt and khakis. All pretenses of upper echelon behavior, it seemed, had vanished. No, that was classless, but this  _ rope _ , for the sake of all that God had forsaken, this rope was absolutely horrendous. It was thick and coarse and fraying, and parts of it were stained dark red and black, no doubt from the blood of previous victims. It was somewhat  _ insulting _ to Rire that this man Strade would use old rope to tie him back after having so roughly handled him. He sighed internally. If he spoke up now, he would ruin the game. It was some small mercy, at least, that Strade was at least deft at tying his hands. No doubt he had practiced many times in the past.

Strade stood in front of where he had tied Rire. Through his sunglasses, and peering upward so as not to move his head and alert Strade to his consciousness, Rire could just barely make out the shapes of what looked like power tools. An average basement, it seemed like. Strade, before him, hummed off-key as he fiddled with several smaller tools on the table in front of the wall where he had hung the power tools. A knife. A hammer. A small screwdriver. He picked them all up, examined them, polished them, as he hummed. Even that seemed average. And yet, here he had Rire tied up. How interesting indeed, this juxtaposition.

Rire smirked to himself, laughed at his own hypocrisy. After all, did he himself not resemble but a regular human? Things were not always what they seemed, but this duality, that was what took away the ennui of the quotidian flow.

He continued to muse to himself for the next few minutes, but he could not keep his cool when Strade banged his elbow against the table by accident as he was putting a tool back. The tiny whine that escaped from his mouth, the surprised and hurt expression in his eyes at his body’s betrayal, the awkward laugh that followed - it was all so  _ normal _ , so  _ fragile _ , so  _ human _ . Rire laughed in spite of himself.

Immediately, Strade’s eyes narrowed in suspicion, like a dog assessing a dangerous situation. A split second later, however, his eyes were wide, shining. A big smile spread across his face. Even with Rire’s sunglasses darkening his vision, the white of Strade’s round teeth was stark against his brown skin. The exact opposite, it seemed, of Rire’s own pale, almost translucent white skin and… he ran his tongue over his teeth, mouth closed.

“Ach, you’re awake!” he exclaimed, leaning downward so that he was at eye level with Rire.

“So it appears I am,” Rire smiled dryly.

Strade laughed, standing up straight again. “It’s gonna be fun,” he said cheerfully. “Are you ready for the night?” It seemed as though he was asking himself more than he was asking Rire. This was amusing, a man who talked to himself in this way.

“Is there any reason I shouldn’t be?” Rire asked, eyebrow raised.

“Oh buddy,” Strade laughed. “Get ready for it all. The adrenaline!” he gushed. “Oh, I know I’m excited.” He turned his back on Rire as he said it, turning to reach for a tool, it seemed. It would be so…  _ easy _ . With one swift move, Rire could take his head off, before he even turned back around.

But what was the fun in finishing him off so quickly?

When Strade turned around again, he held the knife Rire noticed earlier in his left hand, gripping its black handle. The blade was ridged near the tip, curved on one side.

Strade’s eyes were wide, his manic grin wider. Dim as the basement lighting was, it reflected off his amber irises brightly. Rire could see the anticipation in his eyes, the excitement without even a hint of boredom. How he envied this man, this man who was excited by merely a knife and victim. To  _ feel _ something all the time, to be  _ manic _ by something so simple… but would it be better to indulge in simple pleasures and feel a rush from that, as Strade did now, than to be bored from time to time? It seemed almost savage to Rire, and yet Strade himself did not feel like a cretin, did not feel like someone beneath Rire’s interest. At least, not for the time being.

“This will be fun,” Strade assured Rire as he knelt by his side, knife pressed against Rire’s leg. “You might want to kick, but don’t. I can’t promise how deep I’ll cut, you see? I don’t want to hurt you, buddy! Not unnecessarily.” Strade chuckled as he skillfully made a slit in Rire’s slacks and ripped along his leg, cutting him shallowly and destroying his trousers, pulling the shreds off. Rire did not move, did not even look at Strade, merely looking straight ahead, counting the tools. A drill. A saw. A hammer. A kiln next to the wall. A refrigerator.

He felt Strade put his hand on his shoulder, moving on to cut his top off. He looked at Strade from his periphery.

“Try not to damage the vest too much,” Rire said flatly. “You could just take it off, you know? It  _ is _ damask and silk. It would be a shame to destroy such a fine garment.”

Strade laughed, a wheezy laugh like an old dog. “What would be the fun in that, though?” he hummed. “The best part is feeling the threads separate under your knife, in your hands. Feeling that… that attachment break,” he shuddered with delight, accidentally - or perhaps purposefully - nicking Rire’s shoulder in the process.

Rire went back to looking ahead, sighing. It didn’t hurt much, to be honest. A pinprick, perhaps. An annoyance more than anything. He truly did like that vest, though. It  _ was _ authentic damask imported from Asia back during the fifteenth century, at the height of its popularity. A shame, truly, that damask fell out of fashion. Rire rather liked that trend; it was classy: the details were exquisite, the craftsmanship, attentive. He did not mourn the scraps of fabric that once was his vest as they fell on the floor around him, nor did he glance at them at all, but he did feel a sense of loss. 

He inhaled sharply, feeling Strade’s hand between his legs. The knife. It was pressed against him ever so slightly, right next to Strade’s hand. Rire looked at Strade peevishly. Strade’s grin widened, slicing at Rire’s undergarments without looking, positive he was causing discomfort. How irksome.

Now sitting naked on the cold concrete of Strade’s basement, his hands tied behind his back, Rire let out a sigh of impatience as Strade knelt next to Rire and cleaned up the fragments of Rire’s old clothes. “Are you quite done here?” Rire asked, annoyed at the crude way in which Strade had disposed of his clothes.

Strade halted, cocked his head to the side. “What do you mean, buddy?” He looked at Rire, then laughed. “We haven’t even started. Why don’t you tell me your name?”

Rire was unimpressed. “Well then, start. My patience is wearing thin.”

Laughing again, Strade’s expression changed. He had looked before like a jovial man, and yet now, though he smiled and laughed, there was something sinister about him. Now  _ this _ was interesting. Evil was no strange trait in man, but it rarely showed in humans as it did here in Strade.

“I’m not so sure you want it, buddy,” Strade warned with a smile that, Rire assumed, would have looked sadistic and somewhat terrifying had Rire been a human, tied up and supposedly at Strade’s mercy.

The smile relaxed as Strade tapped the side of his head. “Almost forgot!” He reached out and put his hands on the sides of Rire’s sunglasses. “I want you to see me clearly, after all,” he chuckled.

Removing the sunglasses from Rire’s face, Strade sat back. He blinked in confusion.

Now it was Rire’s turn to laugh.

“Your eyes…” Strade whispered.

“I suppose congratulations are in order,” Rire grinned, revealing his sharp, pointed teeth. “So congratulations. You’ve just met a demon.”

Strade blinked again in shock, but then, to Rire’s surprise, he burst out laughing once more. “Oh!  _ Wunderbar _ !” he cried. “How unique! How fascinating! This… this will be fun!”

Rire waited for Strade to stop murmuring words of awe before continuing. A human who was not afraid of demons, but instead fascinated. How interesting indeed. “How about a game?” Rire proposed.

“A game?” Strade stopped laughing immediately, all his attention on Rire. “What kind of game?”

“A game to entertain the both of us,” Rire replied calmly. “You clearly aren’t afraid of me, and I have been bored for a while now, waiting to find an interesting human to play with. You certainly fit that description. So why not play a game?”

“Go on,” Strade prompted, genuine interest glittering in his eyes.

“You can do what you want with me, play the game however you want, and if I submit to you and admit defeat, then you win,” Rire suggested. “However, if I grow bored… then it will be  _ my _ turn to play with  _ you _ .”

Strade grinned. “Seems fun enough. Why not?”

Rire’s eyes glowed as Strade accepted the quasi-deal. “Very well, then. My name is Rire, by the way. It will be a pleasure playing with you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Be careful when making deals with demons.
> 
> Chapter title from "Green Finch and Linnet Bird" from Sweeney Todd: Demon Barber of Fleet Street.


	3. The Better To See You With, My Dear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They say eyes are the window to the soul.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for this chapter:  
> inappropriate touching,  
> blood,  
> implied sexual content,  
> religion,  
> knife,  
> Strade
> 
> DISCLAIMER: I do not condone the actions of the characters in this story. This story is purely fictional and in no way reflects my intentions, beliefs, or actions.

“Playing a game with a demon,” Strade muttered to himself, relishing the sound of it. It was not that he knew much about demons, but something about it seemed fun. After all, how could he refuse the chance to inflict as much pain as possible, see the blood flow, hear the screams? And this time, he could take his sweet, sweet time, or so Rire, the man, the  _ demon _ he met at the jazz bar had implied.

Resisting the urge to take a knife directly to Rire’s pale skin right now and carving, carving, carving thin ribbons of red until they flowed in silk sheets like a cloak and then a puddle and then a river and then an ocean of red, red, red drowning the white of his skin… Strade shuddered, the very thought of it causing his heart rate to speed up in anticipation. It was difficult to resist the urge.

“You sound incredulous,” Rire murmured. Was that amusement in his voice?

Strade eyed him up and down. Long, dark hair, pale skin the color of light peach cream that the cheap diner down the road put on top of pies, he would almost, almost look like a normal, if not extremely attractive, human. His eyes gave it away, though.

Squatting with his hands on his thighs so as to get a better look, Strade stared straight into Rire’s eyes. They were so alluring. Yellow and glowing and framed by dark lashes. Something behind them seemed to flicker, beckoning to Strade. Come closer, come closer, they seemed to whisper. Strade could fall in love with those eyes; he could cut them out and keep them on his shelf, soak them and preserve them, so he could see them flicker and shine as they did right now. He could own them and keep them and love them all for himself forever and ever and ever and ever.

“When I was a little boy in Germany, my  _ Oma _ was religious,” Strade replied, still staring at Rire’s eyes in fascination, a smile stretched wide across his face. “She always told me to trust in God and to never invite in the devil.” He laughed as he straightened back up, still staring longingly at Rire’s eyes.

“And what would she say if she were to see you now, playing a game with a demon king?” Rire asked calmly.

“Who knows,” Strade shrugged. Rire’s nonchalance was cute - he didn’t think Strade would be able to win this game. Well, Strade would just have to prove him wrong. “My  _ Oma _ died a long time ago, buddy. I don’t think she’d have anything to say now.”

Rire smirked, his eyes flitting to the kiln by the wall. He didn’t look at Strade, but it wasn’t out of fear, Strade could tell. It was almost like Strade wasn’t there… like he wasn’t  _ worth _ Rire’s time. “And you don’t suppose she’s watching you from Heaven?”

Strade laughed so hard that he had to back up and steady himself against his tool table. “Oof! You’re not a very serious demon, are you, buddy?” He wiped away a tear from the corner of his eye as he shook with laughter. “That old woman, bless her soul, probably belongs in Hell.”

“Oh? She was a bad person, then?” Rire asked, but his tone was flat, clearly uninterested.

At this, Strade shrugged. “She was a good Christian. She sometimes pinched her grandson’s cheeks, and she sometimes gave him biscuits and jam. But she wasn’t a saint, eh?” Strade smiled, leaning back against the tool table. “You see, I think most people go to Hell. People walk around all day, acting like saints, but they’re all hypocrites.” He crossed his legs. “They hurt other people and say it was an accident; they go to church on Sunday, but then are back to drinking and sex and who knows what hours later. The way I see it,” a small ant was walking by on the concrete floor, a little black dot moving in a zigzag pattern inches from Strade’s heavy boot. Strade uncrossed his legs, brought the boot down on the ant, and ground his toe into the ground. When he removed his foot, the little ant’s leg twitched desperately. It got another half a centimeter away before Strade brought his foot down again, this time making sure the ant was dead, nothing but a small black splatter on the dirty floor. “The way I see it, people are all going to go to Hell eventually. So why not have some fun while we’re still here? Why pretend as though seeing someone squirm before you doesn’t get you excited? Why hold yourself back from sinking your knife into someone’s soft flesh, lapping up their blood?”

Strade paused, licking his lips. He could taste salt and grease from his dinner earlier. He grinned, leaning into Rire quickly, his knee on Rire’s crotch, clutching Rire’s ponytail in one hand and pressing a knife to Rire’s cheek in the other. “Can you hear my heart pumping, buddy?” he asked, voice low. “Can you tell how excited I am to cut into you?”

Putting just the slightest bit of pressure on the knife, Strade felt his hand tingle as Rire’s skin gave way and a few drops of blood beaded on his knife. He removed his knife and leaned in close enough to feel Rire’s breath on his ear. Licked the cut gently. The blood was warm and tasted of iron and salt.

“Ohh, buddy, if only you knew what I am going to do to you,” Strade laughed, pulling harder at Rire’s hair. “I think you’ll enjoy it.”

He leaned back, shifting his weight more onto the knee that still dug into Rire’s crotch. Strade grinned, looking at the knee, and then back to Rire as he dug in further still. “How much can a demon bleed?” he asked.

Rire’s finally looked at Strade, his golden eyes locking with Strade’s. “You don’t really want me to tell you, now, do you?”

Strade grinned, looking back at Rire. Yes, he would really like to keep those eyes for himself. “You’re right, buddy. It’s no fun if you tell me. Let me find out.”

Slowly, Strade raised the knife to Rire’s cheek, right under his right eye. He pressed the flat part of the knife down gently. The dim lighting fixtures in the basement buzzed as if to emphasize Strade’s excitement, the onomatopoeia of the rush he felt as he brushed his finger softly against Rire’s eyelid. Strade breathed heavily, almost panting.

“You don’t want to do that,” Rire murmured.

No, Strade thought. No, he didn’t really want to do that. Puzzled, Strade kept the flat of the knife pressed against Rire’s face. “Don’t be selfish,” he hummed. “What beautiful eyes you have! Why do you need two of them, hmmm?”

“All the better to see you with, my dear,” Rire replied sardonically.

Strade stayed a moment more with his knife on Rire’s cheek. He blinked, pulling the knife away. Another time. He wanted Rire to be able to see everything he was about to do, see it perfectly clearly with both of his eyes. Yes, he would have time to take those beautiful eyes later. Not right now. Strade blinked again, his thoughts tumbling yet empty, he felt, tumbling and tumbling and jumbled and mixed up and empty all at once. It was the excitement, he decided. He shook his head, got up.

“Don’t think you’re off the hook now,” Strade teasingly warned, wagging his knife at Rire. Rire snorted as Strade walked away, up the stairs, out of the basement.

Once upstairs, Strade blinked. Why didn’t he take Rire’s eyes back then? So golden, something violent inside of them, something dangerous. He wanted them. He  _ loved _ them. He loved them and he would have them and - no, not yet. Yet. Why didn’t he take them? He could have taken one, at least. Why had he not taken them?

A buzzing in Strade’s front pant pocket snapped him out of his examinations of his own thought process. He reached into his pocket, pulled his phone out. It was a text from Sano.

_ You haven’t answered any of my texts. Jackalope again tonight? _

Strade chuckled. Sano was observant to say the least, having figured out Strade’s activities so early on, only about two weeks after the two of them met a few months ago. 

_ Not tonight. Closed for flooding. Something wrong? _ Strade tapped out the words and sent them.

A response came almost instantly:  _ Nothing. Just remember to be careful _ .

Smiling, Strade stared at the message on his screen. Sano. Such a stoic man, so careful, so quiet. A stern man, too. Anyone would think Sano had a stick up his ass, an expression Strade had heard many times. It was cute, really, seeing the faint pink blush across Sano’s scarred face, his pale chest heaving with pleasure, when he really  _ did  _ have a stick up his ass - Strade’s “stick”, to be precise. Strade could picture Sano’s pink tongue, hanging out of his mouth as he moaned in delight, writhing like a snake.

Like a snake. Sano was a naga. He was part demon.

Strade raised an eyebrow, quickly unlocking his phone and typing out a message to Sano:  _ What do you know about demon kings? _

_ Why? _ Sano’s reply read simply.

_ Just curious :) I heard someone say something about them. Theyre powerful or smth, right? _

Sano did not reply for a long time. Strade watched as the three dots on his messages appeared and disappeared multiple times, indicating Sano was typing. Several minutes passed before the reply came. It was much shorter than Strade expected it to be.

_ Don’t mess with them. _

That was all it said. Strade sighed, almost laughing. He would have to disappoint Sano, it seemed. He’d make it up to him later. He would keep Rire’s eyes, of course, but once Strade was done with him, maybe he could give Sano Rire’s body. Sano was always looking to research more about demons, after all, and he would have to forgive Strade for not following his advice if Strade gave him a demon king to study.

Strade locked his phone and put it back in his pocket. The game would start getting fun tomorrow, he decided.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're all just hypocrites, in the end.


	4. Hallelujah

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> >Hammer  
> >Drill

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for this chapter:  
> graphic depictions of violence  
> hammer/drill  
> Strade  
> religious nihilism / sacrilege (Christianity)
> 
> DISCLAIMER: I do not condone the actions of the characters in this story. This story is purely fictional and in no way reflects my intentions, beliefs, or actions.

Strade came back downstairs the next day, the stairs creaking under his weight as he sauntered down. “Hello there, buddy,” he said gleefully, light eyes focused on Rire. “How are you doing today?”

Rire snorted, amused. “Bit of a strange question to ask someone you have bound in your basement, don’t you think?”

“Not at all,” Strade guffawed. “Have to know how you’re holding up before we get to the fun things, yeah? Wouldn’t want to,” his eyes gleamed with malice as he grinned, “wear you out too quickly.”

“Do what you like,” Rire smiled. “You think you can win this game? How cute,” he smirked.

“Oh buddy,” Strade laughed. “I haven’t even begun. You think tying you up was enough? Scaring you a bit? A few scars here and there?” Strade was doubled over laughing, almost. “No, no, buddy! I promised you, didn’t I? What I’m going to do to you is going to be special! And it will be even more special because you are so different from everyone else I have ever shared this experience with! They say everyone is different, but you, my dear,” Strade abruptly grabbed Rire’s chin in his own rough brown palm and smiled euphorically, looking at Rire’s stoic face. “You will give me a great experience. I like things that are different, you know.”

Rire was unsure whether he wanted to spit in Strade’s face for implying that he was even comparable to the humans Strade had “bonded” with before or whether he wanted to laugh because how interesting this human was to actually  _ like _ things that were different rather than simply destroy them, afraid to understand them. But then again, from the way he spoke, it sounded like he destroyed them, anyway. 

“That’s something we have in common, then, it seems,” Rire replied smoothly. “Perhaps that might make this game difficult for you, though? Sometimes the hardest opponent to beat is the one you understand least.” His voice dripped with cruel irony like the blood that would drip and cling to his appendages after discarding a foe.

Strade laughed, raise an eyebrow. “Oh, I don’t think we understand each other at all, buddy. But that’s what the bonding is for, eh? To help with that,” he said, his voice thick with relish, harsh in his throat as he laughed in a friendly manner. Now Rire raised an eyebrow. It seemed Strade was not stupid at all, at least, not as stupid as he let on. Still, he did not seem to have the common sense not to deal with a demon king, and that said something for his intelligence, indeed.

“We’ll start now, hmmm?” Strade suggested, grinning, as he patted Rire’s cheek with his rough palm. “Sometimes I like to put on a show, but this time… I think we’ll start a little more… intimately,” he said with a low chuckle.

Rire’s own back twitched slightly as Strade turned his back on Rire to examine the tool table. One clean strike, and Strade would be gone, Rire mused. But then he would never get to find out about this strange bonding rite, would he?

“Oh, actually, before we start,” Strade said cheerfully, turning around, a small glass vial in his hand. He shook it, let Rire watch the clear liquid inside slosh around slowly. “I got this from the church a few blocks away. I don’t usually bless my playthings, since they’re all going to Hell, anyway, yeah? But I think this time, I’ll try it,” he grinned with narrowed eyes, a shadow across his face as the one annoying long curl of hair slipped from behind his ear where it had been tucked and fell in front of his face.

Rire remained impassive.

Strade hummed, turning away from Rire once more before he decided on two tools. “I’m breaking all my rules today, just for you,  _ liebling _ !” he exclaimed as he held a hammer in his right hand and an electric drill in his left. He smiled so widely that his eyes seemed to close, a smile stretched across his face so wide that he must have been aching in his cheeks. 

Honestly, Rire was impressed. Strade would have looked like any other normal human in that instant, someone having a jubilant time, if only he had not been holding power tools in his hands. There was a manic aura about him, something chaotic and  _ evil _ . Most humans, they straddle that line between  _ good _ , as if there was any such thing as pure virtue and perfect goodness, and  _ evil _ . It made people bland and gray, mediocre on average, average at best. This man Strade was no such thing. He exhuded malice, did not straddle the line so much as walk with one leg on the line and one leg over on the evil side with his body tilted toward that same direction. Rire chuckled to himself. He of all people should know evil.

“So,” Strade said, swinging the tools so that his arms crossed and uncrossed, “What will it be, buddy? Hammer or drill?”

“Preferably neither,” Rire replied. “I don’t use tools that often. What is the point if you have… servants to do it for you? So forgive my difficulty in making a decision,” he answered coolly.

At this answer, Strade laughed. “I was being merciful in granting you a choice, buddy! You wound me!” He giddily rocked back and forth on his feet laughing, though. “But seeing how you can’t decide, I’ll make it even more special for you! I’ll just use both!” Strade weighed the two tools in his hand for a second before setting the drill down.

“You know, I normally let people choose which one they want. I don’t want them to think I’m cruel, you see? You don’t think I’m cruel, do you, buddy?” Strade chuckled, only half addressing Rire as he examined the hammer, banging it softly against the table and checking it over for rust. “I’m giving you a great two-for-one price! Most people would,” he chuckled softly, “ _ die _ for that sort of deal! Aren’t you excited?”

“Absolutely,” Rire answered caustically. “Although I still don’t believe we are ‘buddies,’” he added with disdain.

“Haha, don’t worry, buddy, we’ll get there very,  _ very _ soon,” Strade promised as he took out a bag of nails and screws and dumped them on the table, sorting them out. He held up a rusty screw and grinned. “Perfect!” he chirped.

Carefully unscrewing the top of the holy water vial, Strade held the screw in the clear liquid for a few seconds, humming as he swirled it around. Rire was unimpressed by how… average the water looked. There was no flair in it, no bubbling or sizzling as the rust fell away, as one might expect from holy water, perhaps like there would be in a movie. Rire himself did not expect any change to occur, but it was rather disappointing and anticlimactic the way the rust simply fell off in tiny flakes, the brown orange pieces weakly swirling through the water as Strade grinned maniacally. “I wonder,” he said in a sing-song voice as he took the screw out from the water and let the excess drip back into the vial, “just where I should start?”

Strade tapped his chin, pacing, holding the screw delicately, as if it were a precious heirloom that he could not bear to break. Suddenly, he gasped, and he turned to Rire with a delighted expression. Rire regarded him coldly.

“Let’s see…” Strade mumbled, abruptly and unceremoniously putting down both the vial and the screw he had so reverently held only seconds before. Rire was honestly surprised the vial didn’t break. And what a  _ shame _ , that would have been, Rire thought with a smirk.

There was a small ruckus as Strade dug around for something in a pile behind Rire. Strade truly was incredibly noisy. “Aha!” came the small ecstatic cry from behind Rire.

A few seconds later, Strade was roughly shoving a plank behind Rire’s back, the unfinished wood stabbed into Rire’s bare back. Strade grunted with effort as Rire made a disgusted scoff. Strade untied Rire’s wrists quickly, grasping both wrists in order to keep him from using them. “You won’t try to escape, now, will you, buddy?” Strade chuckled as he wrestled with the rope and Rire’s arms.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Rire drawled, rolling his eyes. No, he would not try to escape. Not right now, at least. And he would hardly need to try.

Several minutes of Strade struggling and what Rire could only call idiocy, as he was merely resisting for show for Strade’s sake, Rire’s arms were splayed outward in a cross from his torso, tied to the wooden plank by his wrists.

Strade straightened up, grunting. He dusted himself off. Rire watched the little balls of lint float gently to the ground as Strade brushed them off his hideous khakis. “Now then,” Strade said brightly, beaming with pride as he examined Rire, tied to the cross, for a second more. He grabbed the screw from the table where he had thrown it down, still glistening from the holy water, the remaining dark orange rust still slightly damp, and a sturdy looking hammer. “You should’ve just picked the drill, buddy,” Strade chuckled as he knelt by Rire’s right hand and carefully positioned the screw in the middle of Rire’s palm.

He locked eyes with Rire, and his grin widened, just as he brought the hammer down.

The pain was enough to make Rire cry out. For just a second, a searing pain shot through his hand, causing the world to flash white and every single thought in his head to fly out of his head like a flock of pigeons collectively flying away in panic. The holy water burned and Rire’s right hand screamed in agony as the flesh around the screw throbbed and pulsed. For just a second, Rire’s ichor parts threatened to come out, lash out and destroy the bindings, destroy  _ Strade _ .

Rire grit his teeth. No. Not yet.

If he let that happen now, so soon into the game, then it would be like admitting defeat to a mere mortal. No, this was merely a scratch, a paper cut comparative to what he had endured from the hands of priests and angels and the fallen in his near thousand years of existence. This one mortal would not be enough to break him, although he did admit, the holy water was a nice touch.

When Strade moved to Rire’s left hand and drove a nail in his flesh this time, blessed again by holy water, Rire was prepared. Rire grit his teeth, not allowing Strade the satisfaction of hearing the former cry out a second time. His ears could pick up a slight sizzling from where the holy water came into direct contact with his skin, as if he were frying or bubbling. His right hand still pulsed, and Rire shuddered with disgust, thinking of the ugly rust that must have been traveling his bloodstream at that very moment, up his arm, toward his heart. Being a demon king, of course, Rire did not have to worry about such trivial human concerns like tetanus, but it was still annoying to think that his blood would be sullied by such a base chemical.

Strade made a small, dissatisfied sound. “Come on, buddy, don’t act so noble!” he exclaimed, his eyebrows furrowed as he pouted. “I want to hear you scream! I want to see the fear shining brightly in your eyes! It’s no fun if you just take it!” Strade whined. Much, Rire thought, like a petulant child accustomed to being spoiled by its imbecilic parents and who, for the first time, did not receive exactly what it wanted. Rire’s upper lip curled back in a sneer. He had no taste for impudence.

“Oh well,” Strade quickly sighed with a shrug. “There are more things we can do.” He set the hammer down, picked up the power drill from his tool table. He turned it on, letting the drill spin. The mechanical whirring filled the air, high pitched and vibrating and ever so slightly whiny. If Rire could have covered his ears, he would have. The smell of sawdust and iron pervaded the basement as Strade ran the drill. Clearly, it was used for more than one purpose, only one of which for which it was intended, and, also clearly, Strade did not clean his tools very often.

Rire sighed inwardly. Would it be too much to ask for  _ sterile _ torture tools? Honestly, what was this, the Middle Ages? Louis Pasteur discovered germs over a century ago. One would think that torture devices could at least be trusted to be clean.

The whirring stopped as Strade put the drill tip into the glass vial. Strade hummed happily. Rire watched him.

Strade grinned at Rire as he set the vial back down and held the drill with his left hand. He turned it on, drying it off by allowing the excess holy water to fly through the air, hitting Rire in a few spots on his face and chests. The places of impact stung, as though Strade had threw boiling water at Rire instead of room temperature or even slightly cool water at Rire.

Rire braced himself as Strade approached his feet with the drill. “You won’t be needing these, now, will you?” he asked cheerfully, knowing full well that as long as Rire was his prisoner, or at least played prisoner, Rire mused, that Rire would be walking nowhere.

The drill was agony. Rire actually did cry out a second time, a weakness for which he cursed himself. It twisted around inside of Rire’s foot; Rire could feel it shifting inside in circles on top of the pain of the drill penetrating his flesh. Bits of skin and meat and blood flew everywhere, landing in a three foot radius of where Rire was bound, splattering onto Strade’s shirt and face, as well. Strade, however, did not seem to mind. The drill whirred and whirred as the bits of flesh it cut into made squelching, shifting sounds, and the tiny splats as the chunks of flesh hit different surfaces seemed louder than they should have been, loud enough, at least, to be heard over the mechanical whirring of the drill.

When Strade was satisfied, he straightened up. Rire, however, was breathing heavily. He thought it would be easy to withstand Strade, and for the most part, it had been. His foot weeped with blood, though, through a jagged circular hole in his foot, where Rire could see clean through onto the bloodstained concrete beneath the sole, or where the sole used to be. The areas surrounding where the drill was touched by holy water were singed, as though the drill were flaming instead of wet. Using a drill to go through someone’s foot, using it to instill fear in them… how clever. How interesting and fun this human Strade was indeed.

“So buddy,” Strade grinned, wiping away a drop of sweat from Rire’s pale cheek.  _ Damn it, _ Rire cursed inwardly, his shoulders shaking as he strained forward, sending another wave of pain through his hands nailed to the plank behind him. “How are you feeling? Ready to give in yet?”

Rire smirked. “What kind of game would I be playing if I gave in so easily, little human?” he spat.

Strade smile widened. “What fun! Of course, this will be more fun!” He tilted his head, examining Rire with a curious expression. “Something is missing,” he murmured. Strade thought about it for a moment before tenderly reaching both hands toward Rire, brushing past his neck softly, and undoing his hair to allow the black strands to hang loose on his shoulders. It was such a soft gesture. How quaint, Rire thought, glaring up at Strade with glowing and glowering eyes.

“Ach,” Strade exclaimed softly. “Like my own little crucifixion scene, eh? All you need,  _ liebling _ , is a crown of thorns. Just like Jesus,” he laughed.

Rire barked a laugh as well. “I think there are many differences between the son of Christ and myself. Unless you think so poorly of Christ, as I do, that the holy ones are comparable to a demon king.”

At this, Strade laughed and shrugged. “They’re the same thing to me, buddy. They’re both just powerful beings who sway your life one way or another, right? Why else would we have different religions? Pick a god, or don’t, we all end up in the same place, I told you.” Strade’s shoulders shook with laughter. “But by the end of the game, I think I can make you say ‘hum hallelujah,’ to me,” Strade said cockily.

There was nothing for Rire to say. Rire, of course, knew this was not true, but he held his tongue. “Praise be to God,” he whispered softly.

Strade tilted his head. “Hmmm? Do you believe in God? Isn’t that a bit ironic.”

Rire attempted to shrug, but the pain that coursed from his palms all the way down his arms to his shoulders reminded him that perhaps that was not the best course of action. “I’ve met angels before,” he replied, his voice only slightly strained by the pain of being crucified. “And I belive in God, that God exists. But what is a god to someone who does not follow said god?”

It was a rhetorical question, of course. A god without followers is nothing. It was why many of the old gods and religions had faded. Rire had known some of them at one point. He had watched them fade, vanish, disappear forever into oblivion. Sometimes, he did miss their presence. This current god was really very stuffy.

“...I’ll send someone to address your wounds,” Strade finished, and Rire realized he must have not been listening to what Strade said, lost in his own thoughts. Nonetheless, Rire nodded, and Strade, seemingly satisfied, walked back up the stairs, leaving Rire alone in the dark basement with a hole in his foot and rusty screws and nails in his hands.

_ Praise be to God _ , Rire thought to himself, amused by the phrase. Jesus was buried for three days before ascending to Heaven, Rire remembered. 

Rire wondered if Strade would last that long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An imaginary cup of tea for whoever catches the Rire / darqx reference in this chapter.

**Author's Note:**

> Always watch your backs.


End file.
